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GOING  TO  THE  SPRING  RALPH  ALBERT  BLAKELOCK 


OVLl  .  OVLIOD 

.abrw  B3rioni  sSfS  .rigi:  i  aril  1b  b3n§i2  .asvnBD 


I 


GOING  TO  THE  SPRING 
IN  A  PRIVATE  COLLECTION 
Canvas.    Signed  at  the  right.    9  inches  high,  5V^  inches  wide. 


RALPH  ALBERT  BLAKELOCK 


BY 

Elliott  Daingerfield 


New  York 
PRIVATELY  PRINTED 

MCMXIV 


Copyright,  19 14,  by 
Frederic  Fairchild  Sherman 


fiETTY  CENTER 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Going  to  tke  Spring  Frontispiece 

The  Ghost  Dance   Page  i6 

Indian  Encampment   i6 

Pegasus   24 

Indian  Camp   24 

Moonhght   26 

At  Nature's  Mirror   30 

The  Captive   30 

The  Brook  by  Moonhght   33 

Moonhght   36 


RALPH  ALBERT  BLAKELOCK 


RALPH  ALBERT  BLAKELOGK 


PART  ONE 

T  IS  often  tKe  fate  of  a  man  to  he  mis^ 
underwood  in  his  own  generation,  even 
to  be  ignored,  and  if  Kis  pursuit  in  life  he 
Art  tKis  is  particularly  the  case,  because 
it  is  the  few  who  find  deep  enough  inters 
est  in  the  matter  to  devote  time  and  ^udy  to  acquiring 
knowledge.  It  is  far  easier  to  accept  the  fashion  of  the 
hour,  and,  since  our  walls  demand  pidlures  for  their 
decoration,  obviously  it  is  be^  to  secure  those  which 
are  the  fashion.  The  fate  of  such  a  man  is  not  a  hard 
one  essentially,  although  it  may  mean  privation. 
There  is  an  implied  compliment  in  the  negligence,  a 
sugge^ion  that  he  is  not  underwood,  and  so,  quite  un? 
consciously,  the  public  places  him  upon  a  height.  This 
is  a  comforting  sort  of  reasoning,  but  does  not  mean  to 
say  that  the  condition  is  a  right  one.  A  man  who  is 
in  earned — deadly  earned — that  kind  of  earneiAness 
which  is  willing  to  endure  sacrifice,  that  man  knows 
that  he  labors  for  a  small  audience.  His  appeal  is  to 
the  cultivated  few,  and  rarely,  I  think,  does  a  man 
live  and  work  well  in  a  complete  and  solitary  silence. 
Somebody  knows,  and  somebody  cares  for  his  work, 
perhaps  under^ands  it,  and  this  is  the  great  reward, — 
to  be  underwood. 


7 


The  province  of  the  arti^  being  to  express  the  beau^ 
tiful, — a  phrase  that  from  oft  repetition  becomes  rather 
a  platitude,  though  it  should  be  an  axiom, — he  is  in 
some  sort  a  messenger,  and  there  can  be  no  need  of  a 
messenger  if  there  is  no  message.  If,  then,  he  tries  to 
deliver  his  message  of  beauty,  sad  indeed  is  his  lot  if 
he  can  not  v^in  at  lea^  an  audience  of  one. 

A  great  value  in  a  vv^ork  of  art  is  that  we  may  read 
the  man  in  his  work,— nay,  more, — we  may  read  the 
man  and  his  time,  and  art  which  is  immortal  renders 
a  people  immortal. 

Fashion,  tendency  of  the  time,  schools  of  art,  the 
dealers,  are  influences  behind  mo^  of  what  passes 
current  as  the  art  of  the  day,  but  somewhere  in  a  gar? 
ret,  maybe,  a  solitary  man,  working  in  his  own  way, 
oblivious  to  the  schools  or  the  clamor  of  fashion,  ere? 
ates  work  which  surely  finds  the  light  and  arouses  the 
highe^  and  noble^  emotions. 

In  our  own  land  it  is  curious  how  many  of  the 
greater  painters  are  without  the  tradition  of  School. 
Self  taught  we  say  in  the  catalogues.  The  reason  is 
not  to  be  found  by  inveighing  again^  schools,  which 
are  very  useful,  very  needful  indeed  to  the  ordinary 
sort  of  ^udent,  but  it  is  rather  because  men  of  genius 
need  no  rule,  their  foundations  are  built  within  their 
own  souls,  and  the  convidtions  of  such  sanctuary  in? 
evitably  beget  great  works. 

Therefore  to  ^and  alone,  free,  independent,  is 
almo^  a  necessity  for  great  result. 

I  have  heard  men  say,  ''I  mu^  make  my  work 


8 


more  like  the  tKings  otKer  men  are  doing/'  There 
is  nothing  more  deadly,  nor  more  indicative  of  me^ 
diocrity,  nothing  which  more  ^ultifies  the  mind  or 
more  surely  points  with  unerring  finger  to  the  com^ 
monplace.  It  is  insincere,  and  when  that  is  said,  the 
final  breath  of  hope  is  gone,  for  no  good  art  can  exi^ 
without  sincerity. 

There  are  those  who  argue  that  a  man  may  follow 
a  leader  with  great  sincerity.  The  answer  is,  in  art 
each  man  must  be  a  leader,  not  a  follower,  for  no  two 
men  are  alike,  no  two  souls  are  given  the  same  mes^ 
sage,  and  while  it  may  amuse  the  critic  to  trace  like^ 
ness,  the  great  truth  remains  that  true  art  is  personal. 

Long  hair  does  not  make  personality,  nor  would 
the  wearing  of  green  trousers.  Eccentricity  is  the 
vanity  of  feeble  talent.  The  thing  has  been  hinted 
at, — it  is  the  aspiration  of  the  soul. 

If  Ingres'  line  had  no  other  quality  than  its  ex? 
actness  it  could  not  have  been,  as  it  is,  great  art. 
If  our  admiration  for  Franz  Hals  stops  or  begins  at 
his  brush-work  we  have  not  seen  the  true  Hals. 
I  know,  quite  well,  in  saying  this  I  shall  be  contra? 
dieted,  for  to  the  majority  Hals  is  marvelous  because, 
and  only  because  he  had  the  most  dexterous  touch 
the  world  has  seen;  but  he  had  something  more,  and 
the  keenness  and  precision  of  his  observation,  his 
complete  grasp  of  the  entity  of  his  portrait,  these  were 
quite  as  marvelous  as  his  brush.  Dexterity  is  not 
enough.  We  look  and  gasp  even,  we  marvel  and  ad? 
mire,  but  we  see  with  our  eyes  only,  and  are  not 


9 


lured  in  the  spirit.  Tke  way,  tKe  manner,  is  not  the 
fine  thing  in  a  noble  work,  though  it  may,  for  the 
moment,  charm.  \Vhat  has  been  said  to  me  in  this 
picture? — how  much  finer  is  the  observation  than  my 
own?  Can  I  love  the  report  here  set  down  always? 
Is  the  mind  of  the  observer  ennobled?  Such  things 
give  value. 

A  work  of  art  should  express  some  profound  love 
or  belief  in  the  heart  of  the  artist — belief  in  the  har? 
mony,  in  the  design,  in  the  effect,  as  well  as  in  the 
meaning,  else  it  is  merely  a  work  of  craft, — handicraft, 
— and  to  be  valued  as  such. 

This  does  not  exclude  those  things  which  are  at^ 
tempts  to  render  impressions  received  firom  nature, 
however  passing,  because  beautiful  impressions  are 
the  creators  in  us  of  our  intensest  loves. 

\Vhen  I  am  in  the  presence  of  work  which  tells 
me  any  or  all  of  these  things,  I  know  that  an  artist 
has  spoken. 

It  is  with  some  such  thought  that  I  contemplate  the 
work  of  Ralph  Albert  Blakelock. 

PART  Two 

MR.  BLAKELOCK  was  born  in  New  York,  on 
Greenwich  Street,  I  think,  in  184/.  His  father, 
an  Englishman  by  birth,  was  a  Homeopathic  physi:: 
cian.  There  is  little  record  of  the  boy's  earlier  years, 
no  evidence  that  much  time  was  given  to  education, 
and  always  he  seems  to  have  had  the  love  of  painting 

ID 


and  a  passionate  love  of  music.  WketKer  tkese  gifts 
descended  to  tiim  ft-om  some  ancestral  source,  we  do 
not  know,  or  whether,  as  in  so  many  distinguished 
cases,  his  gifts  came  to  him  directly;  in  any  event  he 
heeded  the  call  of  art  and  very  early  in  life  hegan  to 
paint.  His  desires  did  not  lead  him  to  enter  any  art 
school,  or  seek  the  guidance  of  any  special  master. 

He  began  to  teach  himself  by  the  laborious  but 
most  valuable  method  of  close  study  ftom  nature. 
Very  painftil  are  those  early  ventures,  for  some  of 
them  still  exist,  and  wholly  devoid  of  any  suggestion 
of  the  knowledge  of  craft.  One  may  imagine  him 
doing  precisely  what  other  boys  have  done — trying 
with  small  brushes  to  reproduce  every  Uttle  thing  he^ 
fore  the  eyes.  How  tiny  are  the  touches,  how  feeble 
the  grasp  of  form  in  its  largeness  of  character,  and  yet 
there  is  so  much  of  faithful  devotion  to  his  task,  that 
we  know  both  hand  and  brain  were  gaining  in  power 
and  understanding.  We  may  believe,  however,  that 
at  the  outset  he  was  not  equipped  with  great  powers 
of  observation.  To  the  unfolding,  expanding  mind, 
there  is  no  teacher  of  so  great  worth  as  observation — 
not  merely  the  ability  to  see  acutely  or  fully,  but  that 
rarer  phase  in  which  selection  is  the  significant  thing. 
To  be  able  to  see  fully  and  seledt  finely  those  qualities 
or  parts  which  be^  indicate  character — that  is  obser^ 
vation, — artistic  observation,— and  later  by  its  use  will 
come  the  gift  which  is  the  harde^  to  obtain,  and  the 
la^  to  come  in  the  development  of  an  arti^,— the  abil? 
ity  to  omit.  This  brings  synthesis,  the  utmo^  remove, 


II 


probably,  from  reality,  but  the  realm  in  which  the 
noble^  creations  of  art  may  be  found.  It  does  not 
come  early  in  Kfe.  It  is  won  by  travail  and  strain, 
even  suffering,  and  the  synthesis  of  fifty  is  usually 
the  hterali^  at  sixteen. 

V/ith  Blakelock  his  training  was  slow  and  achieved 
under  great  handicap.  Revelation  did  not  come  until 
later.  He  never  went  abroad,  although  he  was  an  in? 
tense  lover,  we  are  told,  of  the  old  makers.  Ju^  what 
that  means  it  is  difficult  to  say,  because  at  the  time  we 
had,  in  America,  little  which  was  of  value  fi:om  the 
great  painters  of  long  ago.  The  museums  were  much 
cluttered  with  trash,  since  removed,  and  the  great 
wave  of  importation,  inaugurated  by  dealers  and  coh 
ledtors  which  has  brought  to  us  many  of  the  precious 
canvases  of  the  world,  had  not  begun.  V/e  mu^ 
believe,  then,  that  his  love  was  based  on  photographic 
reproduction,  which  is  admirable  ground  for  study, 
but  one  is  forced  to  consider  form  alone  in  these  works 
since  color  is  denied,  or  at  be^  only  suggei^ed. 

Later  we  are  to  say  that  Mr.  Blakelock  was  a  dev? 
otee  of  color,  one  to  whom  color  was  pure  music. 
\Vhence,  then,  did  his  inspiration  come?  The  answer 
is  not  easy. 

Probably  when  he  made  his  first  journey  to  the 
W^e^  and  began  to  study  the  Indians, — when  the 
barbaric  depth  of  their  color,  the  richness  and  pleni? 
tude  of  reds  and  yellows,  the  strength  of  shadow  and 
brilliancy  of  light  awakened  his  vision  and  set  tingling 
those  pulses  of  the  brain  which  control  the  color 


12 


emotions.  His  own  soul  an  untamed  one,  responding 
to  no  conventional  law,  these  children  of  forest  and 
plain  appealed  to  his  deepest  in^indls.  Until  the  end 
of  his  career,  they  ever  and  again  recur  in  his  com? 
positions.  Never,  I  think,  did  he  attempt  portraiture 
— Indian  portraiture — but  the  nomadic  Kfe,  the  inci? 
dents  of  daily  routine,  the  building  of  canoes,  or  pitch? 
ing  of  encampments,  the  dances,  these  were  his 
themes  and  his  love  for  them  never  cooled  or  grew 
less.  We  have  no  drawings  or  group  of  studies  in 
which  to  trace  his  processes.  V/hether  or  not  he 
made  diredt  studies  from  life,  or  by  intense  concentra? 
tion  secured  his  information,  does  not  matter  here. 
W^e  have  the  results  and  through  them  we  know  his 
temperament. 

He  was  always  an  experimentali^.  \Vho  is  not 
when  seeking  to  improve?  But  with  him  experiment 
led  into  many  fields,  and  chance  was  not  scorned  if 
he  could  gain  fi:om  her  whims.  It  was  not  unusual 
with  him  when  some  interei^ting  mingling  of  color 
chanced  upon  his  palette,  to  develop  it  there  into  what? 
ever  theme  was  suggested,  and  cut  out  the  chosen 
piece  of wood  as  expressive  of  artistic  value.  V/e  find 
many  of  these  little  panels,  unimportant  so  far  as  sub? 
jedl  is  concerned,  but  very  beautiful  in  quality  both  of 
color  and  of  surface. 

These  two  words,  quality  and  surface,  come  quick? 
ly  to  mind  when  critically  examining  a  Blakelock, 
even  an  unimportant  one.  These  merits  do  not  seem 
to  be  secured  by  a  trick,  as  so  ofi:en  is  said,  yet  no 

13 


doubt  the  purely  experimental  ones  may  seem  so;  but 
taking  tliem  for  what  they  are,  experiments  in  the 
procedure  of  development,  and  then  turning  to  the 
nobler  canvases  of  the  man, — the  ideas  of  trick,  of 
sham,  of  chance,  pass  speedily  away  and  we  see  the 
work  of  a  man  who,  seeing  and  feeling  artistically, 
tried  to  express  himself  in  a  technique  fitted  to  his  de^ 
sires.  He  would  have  had  little  patience  with  the 
man  who  says  the  only  hone^  painting  is  that  which 
takes  the  mixed  tint  from  the  palette  and  applies  it  to 
the  canvas  with  as  glib  a  touch  as  may  be,  moulding 
and  modeling  his  bit  of  form  in  its  light  and  atmos? 
phere  as  deftly  as  possible,  and  frankly  avows  all  else 
to  be  bad  art. 

Such  men  doubtless  exi^,  but  they  know  nothing 
of  the  subtleties  of  color,  the  influence  of  one  tone 
vibrating  through  another,  the  increased  luiAer  of 
tone  upon  tone,  and  the  magic  carrying  power  of  cer^ 
tain  colors  for  certain  others — nor  do  they  know  the 
beauty  of  surface, — surface  merely, — when  the  paint 
has  been  so  applied  that  future  workings  find  a  tooth, 
a  mat  to  hold  the  tint  making  it  resonant,  deep,  lu^er^ 
fill,  glowing  even  into  the  depths  of  shadowed  blacks. 
These  things  Mr.  Blakelock  knew  and  practiced  with 
the  love  of  a  musician  for  his  tone. 

Literary  questions,  story  telling,  moral  meanings, 
nor  history  were  in  his  ideals  of  art.  With  his  love 
for  the  Indian  he  might  have  essayed  profound  lessons 
for  the  renascence  of  the  race,  a  recrudescence  of  their 
primitive  privileges,  and  failed  in  his  art.    Rather  he 


14 


sought  m  their  lives  and  habits  the  beauty  which 
would  lend  itself  to  the  art  of  painting, — the  rhythmic 
sway  of  figures  in  the  dance  seen  dimly  under  the 
shadowy  trees,  the  silent  tepee  with  the  Ungering 
light  concentrated  upon  it — the  barbaric  mingling  of 
colorful  groups  in  contrast  with  deep  woodland  shad? 
ows.  It  was  enough  for  him  to  search  out  the  beauty 
of  these.  He  probably  would  not  have  liked  that  rare 
and  dignified  Indian  picture  of  Mr.  George  de  Forest 
Brush,  ''The  Sculptor  and  the  King,''  with  its  re- 
minder of  a  romantic  page  in  an  almost  forgotten  his? 
tory.  He,  doubtless,  would  have  found  fault  with 
the  severe  intellectuality  of  the  treatment,  and  this 
reason  traced  further  merely  means  that  the  theme 
was  not  treated  by  Mr.  Brush  subjectively. 

Blakelock  always  expressed  himself  subjectively, 
and,  in  his  ripened  art,  with  complete  success.  This 
is  one  of  the  precious  qualities  in  the  work  he  has 
given  us. 

PART  THREE 

DURING  all  his  hfe,  probably,  Mr.  Blakelock 
was  harassed  by  the  need  of  money.  Very 
probably,  also,  he  was  not  provident  with  that  which 
came  into  his  hands,  and  being  careless  in  his  expendi? 
tures  he  was  constantly  in  need. 

It  is  an  oft  urged  dictum  that  an  artist  is  better  off 
without  money,  his  art  should  be  all  in  aU  to  him, — 
but  our  modern  life  imposes  obligations  in  the  mere 

15 


/ 


business  of  keeping  alive,  which  keeps  this  thought 
very  prominently  in  mind,  and  no  argument  is  need^: 
ed  in  suggesting  the  value  to  any  mind^worker  of  a 
mind  at  peace.  This  is  one  of  the  pitiful  things  in  this 
man's  career,  —that  his  advance  toward  that  brilliancy 
which  would  have  rewarded  him  and  finally  did 
honor  his  time,  was  so  greatly  impeded,  if  not  meas? 
urably  reduced,  and  the  man  himself  broken  upon 
the  wheel  of  suffering .  Of  the  shadowed  mind  which 
closed  forever  his  labors,  certainly  the  story  is  sad 
enough. 

Mr.  Blakelock  was  married  and  had  a  large  family. 
He  had  known  his  wife  since  childhood.  She  is  still 
hving,  the  family  much  scattered,  and  every  picture 
and  study  has  been  disposed  of  to  stay  the  smart  of 
need.  Mrs.  Blakelock  knows  the  burden  of  hard 
work,  and  the  wolf  has  often  looked  in  her  door,  but 
she  is  a  brave  and  patient  woman ! 

There  are  countries  which  do  not  allow  such 
things  to  be, — countries  that  we  consider  far  behind 
our  own  in  civilization  which  recognize  the  perman? 
ent  value  of  art  and  see  to  it  that  suffering  shall  not 
stay  a  gifted  hand. 

Mrs.  Blakelock  talks  gently  and  quietly  of  her  huss^ 
band.  She  tells  many  Kttle  stories  which  show  his 
extreme  devotion  to  his  art — its  dominance  in  every 
moment  of  life.  She  tells  of  his  habit  of  seeing  pic^ 
tures,  compositions,  in  everything, — the  markings  on 
old  boards ;  the  broken  or  worn  enamel  in  the  bath? 
tub  being  a  field  of  great  suggestiveness.  Painters 

i6 


THE  GHOST  DANCE 
COLLECTION  OF  J.  G.  SNYDACKER 
Canvas.    Signed  at  the  right.    21  inches  high,  39  inches  wide. 


INDIAN  ENCAMPMENT 
METROPOLITAN  MUSEUM  OF  ART 
HEARN  COLLECTION 
Canvas.    Signed  at  the  left.    37  inches  high,  40  inches  wide. 


irfonr  Q£  .rigiri  eario/i 


MUaZUM  HATlJO^OaXaM 


will  Kave  no  difficulty  in  understanding  this — just 
Kow  the  shadows  and  lights  will  twinkle  or  break 
up — how  the  glow  in  the  exposed  copper  will  sug^ 
gest  sunset  sky,  and  the  shining  higher  note  become 
the  gleam  of  Hght  on  water .  Such  things  are  frequent 
and  very  interesting  in  an  artist's  experience. 

In  his  years  of  work  Blakelock  had  evolved  a  style, 
a  style  so  specific  that  it  might  be  said  his  pictures  are 
all  alike.  This^  is  not  true  except  in  so  far  as  his 
method  makes  them  alike.  There  were  times  when 
in  the  search  for  great  darkness  he  used  bitumen  to 
the  detriment  of  his  work.  It  is  a  trying,  though  very 
seductive  color,  and  has  proved  an  enemy  to  many  a 
painter's  works.  It  never  really  dries,  and  under  cer^ 
tain  conditions  of  heat  it  becomes  moist  and  gummy, 
— worse, — it  runs.  There  is  a  very  amusing  though 
sufficiently  tragic  story  about  two  pictures  of  Blake? 
lock's.  A  gentleman,  who  owned  some  nine  of  his 
works,  came  to  me  one  day  and  said,  ''You  remem? 
ber  my  Blakelocks?"  ''Yes,"  I  said.  "Well,  I  found 
two  of  them  on  the  floor  this  morning . "  "  You  should 
have  used  stronger  wire,"  I  told  him.  "Wire  noth? 
ing,"  he  flared  back,  "The  frames  are  hanging  on  the 
wall  all  right,  but  the  pictures  just  slipped  off  the 
canvas,  and  were  lying  on  the  floor  in  a  mass  of 
brown  gum." 

The  truth  was,  probably,  that  the  weather  had 
been  very  hot  and  the  bituminous  color  melted  away 
from  the  panel  and  slipped  off  to  the  floor.  Such  a 
thing  would  never  happen  again,  and  no  one  need 


17 


feel  anxious.  Blakelock  gave  up  tke  use  of  bitumen 
and  secured  his  darks  in  a  wiser  manner  and  with 
better  colors. 

It  is  a  curious  truth  that  a  great  workman  pursues 
his  craft  under  the  very  eye  of  those  who  love  him  and 
wonder  at  his  abilities,  that  he  will  often  have  friends 
who  become  intensely  intere^ed  in  his  methods,  and 
watch  daily  feats  of  craftsmanship  which  are  almo^ 
magical  in  their  results,  and  achieved  by  processes, 
principles  and  laws  which  the  workman  has  perfected 
for  himself,  eliminating  all  element  of  haphazard  or 
chance,  and  which  from  repetition  become  almo^  a 
sort  of  portrait  of  himself, — and  yet  no  one  sits  down 
and  reports  this  man's  speech;  no  one  tells  us  specific? 
ally  of  that  process  which  brings  about  the  beauty 
and  which,  if  told,  would  be  immensely  intereirting  to 
the  general  public. 

That  Blakelock  suffers  this  fate  is  matter  for  real 
regret,  and  he  has  never  written  a  word  about  his 
work,  himself,  or  his  craft.  V/e  can  discover  much, 
and  if  one  is  used  to  kindred  processes  it  is  not  difficult 
to  tell  the  manner  of  his  procedure.  The  effedt  of  thin 
paint  in  itself  was  not  satisfying  to  him.  He  needed 
a  firm,  hard,  impasto  ground.  This  was  doubtless 
achieved  by  Gaining  in  the  form  he  wished, —always 
a  tentative  and  slight  theme  —  and  about  this  he 
wrought  a  thick,  rich,  opaque  body  of  silvery  tone. 
He  used  most  frequently  V/insor  and  Newton  colors 
and  dilute  varnish,  (copal)  as  a  medium. 

Atone  time  he  experimented  in  making  varnishes, 

i8 


and  many  painters  will  remember  tke  ''Blakelock 
VarnisK''  wKich  was  on  sale.  TKis  was  probably  no 
more  tban  a  good  copal  witk  a  few  drops  of  cold 
pressed  linseed  oil  added. 

V/ben  tbe  silvery  ground  of  bis  pidlure  was  bard 
and  dry,  be  floated  upon  it  more  forms,  using  tbin 
paints  mucb  ricber  in  quality  of  color;  wben  partly 
dry  tbese  were  flattened  witb  a  palette  knife,  tbe 
forms  brougbt  into  relief  by  subtle  wipings,  and  once 
more  allowed  to  dry.  Tbis  process  was  repeated  fre? 
quently ,  and  wben  tbe  surface  became  gummy  or  over 
glazed,  be  reduced  it  by  grinding  witb  pumice  ^one. 
Tbe  effedl  of  tbis  would  bring  tbe  under  silver  of  bis 
fir^  impasto  into  view,  and  witb  tbis  for  bis  key 
of  gray  be  developed  bis  tbeme,  drawing  witb  tbe 
darker  and  relieving  witb  tbe  under  paint. 

So  bald  a  ^atement  as  tbis  refers  only  to  procedure, 
and  bas  notbing  wbatever  to  do  witb  tbe  genius  wbicb 
guided  tbe  band  in  eacb  toucb,  nor  witb  tbe  ta^e  or 
sense  of  color  wbicb  controlled  every  move.  It  is 
offered  to  tbose  wbo  wisb  to  know  bow  Blakelock  got 
bis  effedl.  By  bim  it  was  very  beautiful;  by  anotber 
it  migbt  be  foolisbness. 

It  was  tbe  custom  of  old  Turner,  tbe  great  Englisb 
painter,  to  allow  no  one  in  tbe  ^udio  wbile  be  worked, 
nor  to  see  bim  make  bis  outdoor  sketcbes.  V/e  can 
not  believe  it  was  timidity  witb  bim,  or  a  modei^ 
doubt  about  bis  ability  to  do  tbe  tbing  well.  Tbat  be 
objedted  to  any  one's  finding  out  bis  metbods  is  tbe 
more  likely  reason,  and  we  miss  very  mucb  tbe  bints 


19 


wKich  would  Kave  given  us  a  clue  to  tKe  wonder  of 
his  color  and  textile  accomplishments. 

In  Blakelock  the  problem  is  easier  for  any  one  who 
has  acquaintance  with  technical  methods,  or  the  my  ss: 
teries  of  the  palette. 

The  accusation  again^  Blakelock  that  his  canvases 
blacken  with  time  is  hardly  fair  and  seldom  true,  ex^ 
cept  in  the  cases  noted, — and  if  I  am  corredt  in  the 
description  of  procedure,  it  is  a  simple  matter  if  a  can? 
vas  is  suspedted  of  darkening,  to  expose  it  to  diredt 
sunlight,  which  wonderfully  freshens  and  clarifies  the 
color.  I  doubt  if  the  arti^  himself  ever  failed  to  do  this, 
and  it  is  a  much  easier  thing  to  do  than  to  subjedl  a  sub? 
tie  work  to  the  untender  hands  of  a  re^orer,  who,  to 
brighten  a  work,  removes  entirely  the  last  exquisite 
modulations  of  the  arti^. 


PART  FOUR 

How  long  he  was  in  reaching  the  power  to  ex? 
press  himself  completely,  to  produce  those  dis? 
tinguished  works  which  we  know  to  be  his,  is  a 
matter  of  little  moment,  at  bei^  a  que^ion  of  opinion. 
What  really  concerns  us  is  that  against  all  the  hard 
conditions  which  surrounded  him  and  beset  his  years, 
he  continued  to  work  and  to  hold  faithfully  all  the 
canons  ofhis  arti^ic  faith.  Also,  he  succeeded  and  the 
light  ofhis  genius  found  true  expression. 

To  say  of  a  pidture,  it  is  like  a  Blakelock,  is  high 
praise  and  sugge^s  color,  quality,  tone  and  complete 


20 


unity.  TKat  his  ^yle  was  formed  upon  his  own  con? 
vidtions  is  evident.  He  could  not  Kave  known  Isabey, 
nor  Monticelli,  both  of  whom  might  have  influenced 
him.  Knowledge  of  the  Barbizon  men  was  probably 
slight,  and  of  little  influence  upon  his  mind. 

Here,  then,  we  have  a  man  whose  work  is  like  none 
of  his  great  contemporaries. 

Inness,  Wyant,  Homer  Martin,  he  mu^  have 
known  well,  but  there  is  no  trace,  to  me,  of  their  in? 
fluence  in  his  work. 

I  should  think  he  might  have  loved  Albert  Ryder 
intensely.  At  times  the  quality  of  light  is  very  similar 
in  their  work. 

I  remember  a  pidlure  Ryder  once  showed  me  in  his 
irtudio — this  ^udio  was  merely  a  back  room  in  an  or? 
dinary  house  and  the  sun  shone  brightly  in  the  win? 
dow.  The  pidture  was  a  moonlight,  and  I  complained 
that  the  sunlight  fell  full  upon  the  canvas.  Ryder 
moved  it  into  a  corner,  and  the  canvas  shone  and 
gleamed  with  the  rare  beauty  of  pure  light.  To  my 
exclamations  of  wonder  Ryder  gently  said,  ''That  is 
what  I  call  its  magical  quality!'' — It  is  ju^  this  magic 
that  makes  the  kinship  with  Blakelock. 

It  has  been  said  that  to  be  truly  great,  a  man's  art 
mu^  found  a  school,  it  mu^  be  of  such  compelKng 
power  that  it  will  have  a  following,  and  everywhere 
we  should  see  reflections  of  the  arti^'s  genius.  If  this 
be  so  then  Blakelock  is  not  a  great  man.  No  school 
came  into  being,  no  group  of  men,  beHeving  and  un? 
derirtanding  his  ideas,  carries  on  his  work.  Of  imita? 


21 


tors  there  are  many, — men  who  think  it  is  easy  to 
make  a  canvas  look  like  a  Blakelock,  and  they  hurry 
to  do  it  because  of  late  the  works  of  Blakelock  are  in 
demand,  but  these  paltry  things  are  mere  gummy 
masses  rubbed  together  and  left  glaze  upon  glaze  to 
disgu^  one  who  under^ands  what  Blakelock  did  in 
his  fine  things.  The  impression  is  very  false  that  he 
secured  his  effedls  by  heavy,  superimposed  glazes. 
That  he  knew  the  use  and  value  of  a  glaze  as  few  men 
now  do  is  true,  but  many  very  beautifiil  examples  of 
his  work  exi^  in  which  the  quality  seems  to  have 
been  secured  at  the  outset,  and,  because  of  that  very 
precious  thing ,  left  alone .  Bring  together  a  large  num? 
ber  of  his  pidlures,  and  his  range  at  once  becomes  ap? 
parent.  Not  only  range  of  technical  method,  but  of 
idea  and  theme.  That  he  should  enjoy  the  very  mani? 
pulation  of  paint  itself  in  his  search  for  effedt  is  only 
to  say  what  all  color i^s  enjoy.  There  is  something 
amounting  to  an  insanity  in  the  emotions  aroused 
when  color  is  behaving, — when  it  is  obedient  to  the 
guiding  will  of  the  painter,  and  resolving  itself  into 
glow,  jewels,  atmosphere,  light,  or  velvet  shadow. 

All  painters  are  not  endowed  with  such  sensi? 
tive  emotions,  and  perhaps  will  not  concur  with  me. 
Blakelock  was  so  endowed  to  a  high  degree.  I  know 
a  painter  who  has  a  fair  measure  of  success,  and  yet 
he  said,  ''I  dislike  the  whole  business  of  painting, 
and  I  know  when  I  begin  the  paint  will  not  behave." 
From  such  a  man  we  would  not  exped:  fine  color. 

Monticelli  makes  a  different  statement, — ''I  know 


22 


no  higher  emotion  than  the  laying  on  of  a  fine  tone  of 
black  or  sumptuous  yellow!''  To  him  the  very  paint 
was  a  medium  of  joy,  and  he  offers  to  us  those  sensa? 
tions  of  color,  considering  that  message  enough.  At 
times  it  is  so  with  Blakelock  and  he  will  ^op  midway, 
it  would  seem,  in  the  completion  of  his  canvas,  be^ 
cause  the  musical  chord  of  color  was  reached. 

There  was  a  little  pidture  in  the  recently  sold  coh 
ledtion  of  Mr.  Evans,  entitled  ''Pegasus,''  in  which 
the  i^atement  is  very  slight,  the  tones  exquisite  in  the 
rhythmic  flow,  though  there  is  very  little  of  the  rich? 
ness  of  color  found  in  very  many  of  his  pidlures,  yet  it 
has  a  quality  of  gray  that  is  ma^erly  and  moiA  lovely. 
The  forms  are  scarcely  more  than  promised,  but  an 
added  emphasis  or  touch  would  spoil  it.  The  title 
''Pegasus"  is  probably  amiss  and  not  his.  Doubtless 
the  little  figure  was  to  be  an  Indian  brave  upon  a  white 
horse,  but  something  in  the  beauty, — rare  indeed — of 
the  tones  stayed  his  hand,  and  the  thing  remains  in? 
complete  but  very  beautiful  and  very  arti^ic. 

Mr.  Charles  W.  Snow  tells  me  an  entirely  differ? 
ent  iftory.  He  bought  the  pidture  from  Mr.  Blakelock, 
who  called  it,  "The  Lady  Godiva" — why,  no  one  can 
say,  since  there  is  no  town,  no  ^reet,  (surely  no  lady 
rides  here)— merely  a  bit  of  rocky  woodland.  His  fur? 
ther  i^ory  is  more  inter e^ing.  Upon  buying  the  pic? 
ture  Mr.  Snow  gave  it  to  his  wife.  A  dealer  became 
much  interei^ed  in  it  and  tried  to  buy  it  from  Mrs. 
Snow,  but  she  refused  to  part  with  it.  Finally  the 
dealer  came  to  her,  and  laying  the  canvas  down  on  the 


^3 


table  he  carefully  placed  gold  pieces,  two?dollar  and 
a  half  gold  pieces,  all  around  the  pidture.  '  'Now,''  said 
he,  ''will  you  keep  the  picture  or  its  gold  frame?'' 
The  presence  of  the  gold  was  too  great  a  lure,  and  she 
parted  with  the  pidlure. 

Another  in^ance  of  titles  to  which  I  take  exception 
is  a  pidture  in  the  possession  of  a  distinguished  collector 
of  Chicago.  It  has  been  called,  "The  Gho^  Dance," 
merely,  it  would  seem,  because  of  the  indefinite,  shad^ 
owy  charadler  of  the  group  of  faintly  indicated  figures 
moving  into  the  pidlure  from  the  right. 

This  is  one  of  the  very  noble^  of  the  arti^'s  pic^ 
tures.  I  am  not  sure  that  even  a  higher  place  might 
not  be  claimed  for  it.  To  describe  it  briefly, — although 
description  carries  little  true  information  about  such  a 
work, — the  composition  is  very  simple  and  dignified. 
A  sloping  piece  of  ground  with  a  dark  grove  of  trees 
on  the  right,  enough  verdure  grows  at  the  left  to  bal^ 
ance,  and  the  dark  mass  relieves  again^  a  filmy  drift 
of  unformed  cirrus  cloud,  behind  which  and  filling  the 
upper  left-hand  corner  the  blue,  dii^ant  sky  is  seen. 
Almo^  in  the  center  of  the  canvas  is  an  indetermi? 
nate,  glowing  spot,  while  from  the  right,  leading  into 
the  pidture  and  again^  the  dark  group  of  trees  an  ir^ 
regular  mass  of  luminous  color  fills  the  space.  This  is 
all,  but  as  an  ensemble  of  color  Blakelock  has  done 
nothing  finer.  The  painting  of  the  foreground,  the 
splendid  velvety  depth  of  his  shadowed  trees,  is 
achieved  without  heaviness  or  blackness,  and  the  en? 
tire  earth  theme  revealed  again^  a  sky  of  incompar? 


24 


PEGASUS 
PROPERTY  OF  THE  AUTHOR 

9  inches  high,  12%  inches  wide. 


INDIAN  CAMP 
IN  A  PRIVATE  COLLECTION 
Canvas.    Signed  at  the  right,    10  inches  high,  14  inches  wide. 


able  beauty.  Tbe  film  of  white  cloud  is  botb  luminous 
and  elusive,  a  veritable  vapor  of  ligbt,  throbbing,  and 
trembling.  Here  is  no  paint,  but  light  itself.  How  it 
has  been  done  we  may  not  know,  but  there  is  no  paint, 
only  lovely  pearly  light,  and  the  blue,  far  lakes  of  the 
sky.  The  thing  is  a  dream  and  as  a  dream  the  central 
glowing  note  engages  our  attention. 

Upon  very  intent  inspection  one  discovers  that 
there  is  the  sugge^ion  of  a  mother  and  child,  a  mere 
sugge^ion,  as  if  the  painter  were  feeling  his  way  in 
the  matter  of  form.  The  intere^  of  this  Httle  group 
both  in  pose  and  line  of  direction  seems  to  be  addressed 
to  the  moving  mass  of  figures  beyond,  figures  evident? 
ly,  but  very  faintly  sugge^ed.  Enough  is  shown  to 
lead  one  to  feel  the  presence  of  a  sort  of  processional, 
a  vague  vision  of  life, — His  life  perhaps,  since  the 
mother  and  child  have  a  Madonna4ike  pose  and  char? 
adler, — here  revealed  to  Him,  the  Child,  and  this  is 
presented  to  us  in  tentative  form,  timidly  even,  as  if 
the  arti^'s  hand  halting  in  the  presence  of  so  great  a 
theme,  dared  not  reveal  all  of  his  own  vision.  The 
dream,  the  vision  is  all  there  for  us,  however,  if  our 
eyes  are  not  darkened  to  all  imagination,  and  the  set? 
ting  is  superb.  I  do  not  know  that  we  should  be  sorry 
for  its  incompleteness,  more  might  have  shocked  the 
senses,  and  the  rare  genius  of  the  painter  knew  when 
to  ^ay  his  hand.  ''A  Vision  of  Life"  seems  a  fairer 
title  than  ^The  Gho^  Dance". 

The  sugge^ive  incompleteness  of  this  canvas  leads 
me  to  speak  of  another  which  to  a  very  rare  degree 

^5 


has  tke  quality  of  perfect  completion, — the  ''Moon? 
light''  recently  sold  at  the  Wm.  T.  Evans'  sale.  Mr. 
Evans  has  ever  been  a  great  admirer  of  Mr.  Blakelock 
and  has  given  several  fine  examples  of  his  work  to  the 
National  Gallery  at  Washington,  but  not  until  the 
dispersal  of  his  entire  collection  could  he  bring  him? 
self  to  part  v/ith  this  superb  MoonKght.  The  picture 
has  for  years  been  well  known  and  a  valued  work  both 
by  the  public  and  by  the  arti^s.  In  the  profession  it 
has  been  called  a  perfedt  moonlight,  and,  it  has  no 
enemies, — a  strange  thing,  indeed,  as  painters  have 
^rong  prejudices.  Its  beauty  depends  quite  entirely 
upon  the  sky, — there  is  little  else.  Slight  trees  above 
the  earth  line,  a  very  low  horizon  or  sky-line,  and  the 
mysterious  glint  of  water  somewhere  out  there 
among  the  shadows,  but  the  great  sky  soars  up  from 
horizon  to  zenith,  arching  overhead  superbly,  and 
baffling  all  search  in  its  gradations;  the  moon  hangs 
low  and  fills  the  air  with  light,  a  faint  haze  surrounds 
it,  almo^  a  halo,  and  the  light  is  that  mysterious 
mingling  of  opaline  colors  merging  into  pale  greens 
and  blues,  splendidly  assembled,  and  performing  their 
work  of  gradation  quite  perfedtly. 

Authors  and  critics  have  an  easy  way  of  writing 
things  about  pictures  which  mean  Httle,  rhapsodising 
sometimes  and  condemning  at  others,  and  always 
building  up  meanings  for  the  reader's  pleasure.  Isn't 
it  enough,  perhaps,  to  say  that  a  man's  vision  has 
been  handed  on  to  us  by  processes  of  perfoct  craft 
so  that  we  are  aware, — completely  so, — of  its  beauty 


26 


MOONLIGHT 
COLLECTION  OF  EX?SENATOR  WM.  A.  CLARK 
Canvas.    27  inches  high,  37  inches  wide. 


and  haunting  charm?  This  Mr.  Blakelock  has  suc^ 
ceeded  in  doing  in  this  ''Moonhght,"and  the  music  of 
it  does  not  leave  us,  nor  its  loveKness  fade. 

The  pidture  was  bought  by  ex^Senator  Clark,  the 
price  marking  a  record  for  Mr.  Blakelock's  work  in 
the  pidlure  world.  Regret  that  the  artist  can  not 
know  of  the  great  price  his  picfture  brought  is  unnec? 
essary.  A  painter's  joy  in  his  art  does  not  arise  from 
knowledge  of  money  values,  but  from  the  work  it- 
self, and  we  may  imagine  Blakelock  knew  this  joy  as 
the  serene  completeness  of  his  canvas  reached  its 
height. 

He  could  not  know,  as  we  now  do,  that  this  work 
alone  would  assure  him  the  honor  and  loving  appre^ 
ciation  of  a  people. 

I  am  disposed  just  here  to  partially  contradict  my? 
self  in  my  statement  that  painters  work  for  the  joy  of 
the  work  alone, — there  is,  perhaps,  this  thing  added, — 
a  great  wish  for  the  commendation  of  the  arti^s  them? 
selves. 

I  remember  an  incident  which  quite  pathetically 
verifies  this: — At  a  banquet,  the  guests  being  nearly 
all  arti^s,  I  sat  next  a  very  di^inuished  painter,  a 
man  well  on  in  years,  and  one  who  leads  a  quiet,  re? 
tired  life  devoted  wholly  to  art.  I  ventured  to  speak 
of  my  admiration  for  his  pictures.  He  thanked  me 
with  a  gentle  sadness,  adding,  ''But  arti^s  generally 
do  not  care  for  my  pictures.''  There  had  recently 
been  held  at  the  Lotos  Club  an  exhibition  of  selected 
American  pictures.   I  turned  to  several  painters  at 


27 


the  tables  and  asked,  ""V/Kat  pidture  at  ttie  Lotos  was 
admired  mo  A  by  the  artiiAs?''  The  answer  was  quick 
and  indicated  the  painting  of  my  companion.  His 
eyes  filled  with  tears,— ''Boys/'  he  said,  ''that's  the 
be^  thing  IVe  ever  had  said  to  me/' 

PART  FIVE 

TWO  phases  of  nature  appealed  specially  to  Blake^ 
lock.  Moonlight  and  that  Grange,  wonderful  mo? 
ment  when  night  is  about  to  assume  fiill  sway,  when 
the  light  in  the  we^ern  sky  lingers  lovingly,  glow? 
ingly,  for  a  space,  and  the  trees  trace  themselves  in 
giant  patterns  of  lace  again^  the  light.  All  the  earth 
is  dim,  almo^  lo^  in  the  shadows,  and  the  exquisite 
drawing  of  limb  and  leaf  makes  noble  design,  design 
so  subtle  as  to  bring  despair,  almo^,  to  an  arti^'s  soul. 
This  was  Blakelock's  moment,  and  it  took  such  hold 
upon  him  that  his  vision  translated  it  into  all  his  work. 

The  daylight  things  are  permeated  with  this  lovely 
my^ery,  and  he  silhouettes  his  trees  with  beautifijl 
drawing  again^  silver  gray  and  golden  skies  illumined 
with  splendid  daylight. 

At  times  he  can  break  away,  as  in  the  glowing, 
"Indian  Encampment"  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum, 
in  which  he  reveals  the  earth  and  trees  with  a  com? 
pleteness  of  vision  and  fidelity  of  form  quite  Rous? 
seau?hke  in  solidity  and  truth. 

Few  of  us  probably  realize  the  rare  beauty  of  this 
work,  and  in  the  haste  with  which  we  try  to  be  mod? 


28 


ern,  we  do  not  pause  long  enougk  to  study  tKe  purity, 
the  vibrant  swimming  light  and  air  reached  in  this 
canvas.  No  tricks  of  dots  placed  in  juxtaposition — no 
decomposition  of  the  spectrum,  no  giving  up  of  form 
for  the  sake  of  a  dazzled  eye,  but  a  clear  and  firmly 
designed  work,  with  style  and  mass  in  its  contours 
— with  a  noble  sky,  tremulous  with  light  and  perfodtly 
adjusted  to  the  forms  below  in  line  and  balance;  in 
gradation  all  that  it  should  be.  The  phrase ''Rousseau? 
like"  is  amply  justified.  It  is  one  of  the  fine  canvases 
of  the  Museum,  as,  certainly,  we  mu^  so  consider 
that  other  Blakelock,  ''The  Pipe  Dance.'' 

I  do  not  find,  "The  Pipe  Dance''  so  complete  as  the 
"Indian  Encampment" — complete  in  the  sense  of  de? 
tail  or  elaboration  of  form;  it  is  rather  the  outpouring 
of  an  emotion.  The  painter  has  not  troubled  to  elab? 
orate  the  great  trees  which  lift  themselves  again^  the 
sky  in  stately  perspective.  His  figures  are  not  well 
drawn,  he  has  not  seemed  to  care,  as,  for  instance,  he 
did  in  the  little,  "Nature's  Mirror"  figure;  but  he  has 
contrived  to  secure  the  sense  of  that  strange,  rhyth? 
mic  motion,  the  recurrent  cadence  of  the  sound,  and 
the  barbaric  spirit  of  the  scene.  These  to  him  were 
more  desirable  qualities  than  academic  exactness. 
V/e  are  no  longer  in  the  Museum  looking  at  pidlures, 
but  somewhere  the  great  wood  has  opened  and  let  us 
in, — in  upon  a  clearing  where  the  sound  is  weird  and 
the  color  wild — the  song  of  birds  is  hushed,  and  civi? 
lization  silenced— aboriginal  man  performs  his  rites, 
and  the  watchful  spirit  of  the  artist  seizes  and  gives  to 


29 


us  tke  tragic  mystery.  Could  we  ask  him  to  do  more  ? 

There  are  also  those  canvases  where  he  sought 
great  glory  of  color,  usually  sunset  themes  with  the 
world  involved  in  a  golden  red  haze.  In  these  works 
he  could  combine  much  of  that  dignity  which  mys? 
tery  gives. 

Any  one  who  has  seen  the  ''Seal  Rocks"  now  in 
Chicago  must  feel  the  my^ery  and  see  the  splendor 
of  his  effort,  and  the  weird,  lonely  rock,  peopled  for 
the  moment  with  seals, — Grange  creatures  of  the  sea 
—is  impressive  indeed.  If  we  are  moved  to  think  of 
Turner,  it  is  only  because  we  shall  never  more  be  able 
to  see  the  sun  descend  through  a  golden  haze  without 
such  thought,  and  this,  in  a  way,  but  pays  a  subtle 
compliment  to  Blakelock. 

There  is  a  current  opinion  that  Blakelock  signed 
his  pictures,  all  of  them,  with  his  full  name  enclosed 
in  an  outlined  arrow-head.  I  do  not  find  this  to  be  true, 
for  many  of  his  very  noble  works  are  not  signed  at  all. 
So  current  is  this  arrow-head  notion  that  the  forgers 
of  his  pidlures,  of  whom  there  are  many,  glibly  en? 
close  the  signature  on  their  mon^rous  perpetrations 
with  an  arrowj^head.  Therefore,  in  a  general  way,  its 
presence  may  be  good  cause  for  caution. 

It  is  a  very  dreadful  thing  that  we  must  submit  to 
the  manufacture  of  these  and  other  pictures,  and  that 
there  is  no  law  to  protect  a  man  and  his  work.  Pro? 
ceeding  on  a  theory,  suggested  in  the  earlier  part  of 
this  essay,  these  forgers  produce,  by  heavy  bitumen 
glazes  over  rich  undertones,  pictures  that  readily  pass 


30 


At  NATURE'S  MIRROR 
THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY,  WASHINGTON 
EVANS  COLLECTION 
Canvas.    Signed  at  the  right.    16  inches  high,  23^4  inches  wide. 


THE  CAPTIVE 
MUSEUM  OF  THE  BROOKLYN  INSTITUTE 
Canvas.    Signed  at  the  right.    16  inches  high,  24  inches  wide. 


3V- 


the  scrutiny  of  the  untrained  and  unsuspecting  buy^ 
er .  The  satire  of  it  does  not  seem  to  make  any  differ? 
ence,  and  tke  public  absorbs  all  tbat  appear.  The 
''Oh !  well,  it  does  not  hurt  any  one  except  those  who 
buy  the  miserable  things ! "  is  neither  fair  nor  true.  It 
hurts  the  artist's  reputation,  it  hurts  in  the  proper 
understanding  of  his  art  and  his  purposes. 

PART  SIX 

MR.  BLAKELOCK  had  a  large  family,  nine  chil^^ 
dren  in  all,  eight  of  whom  are  still  living.  The 
maintenance  of  this  family,  even  though  he  was  ably 
seconded  by  his  wife,  was  a  heavy  burden,  and,  being 
a  dreamer,  he  was  not  always  wise  in  the  use  of  the 
moneys  which  came  into  his  possession.  The  old 
story  of  an  artist  being  in  difficulty  about  money  mat? 
ters  was  often  repeated  in  his  experience,  and  his 
actions  at  such  times  of  ^ress  were  as  unwise  as  they 
were  hurtful  to  his  progress. 

There  was  an  old  curiosity  shop  on  Third  Avenue 
many  years  ago,  in  which  I  saw  one  day  many  panels 
and  pidlures  by  Blakelock.  The  proprietor,  a  man 
known  to  many  artists  when  in  difficulty,  told  me 
there  were  thirty?three  of  them,  and  remarked  calm? 
ly,  '""I  paid  one  hundred  dollars  for  them  all! " 

Blakelock  had  several  friends  who  helped  him 
when  in  these  times  of trial.  Mr.  Harry  W.  V/atrous 
was  one  of  these,  and  in  the  old  Sherwood  Building, 
having  adjoining  studios,  he  came  to  know  Blakelock 

31 


well.  He  tells  many  ivories  of  him  and  his  peculiarly 
ties;  also,  he  was  often  appealed  to  for  aid.  He  tells 
of  one  of  these  appeals:  —  ''Blakelock  came  into  my 
^udio  and  asked  for  a  loan.  I  had  only  a  day  or  so 
before  let  him  have  fifty  dollars,  and  I  refused  this  last 
requeA,  saying,— 'I  can't  do  it,  Blakelock,— what  did 
you  do  with  the  fifty  I  let  you  have  two  days  ago?' 
'  V/ell,'  he  said,  'A  new  baby  came  to  us  ye^erday 
and  money  goes  fa^  at  such  times.'  'Yes,'  I  said,  'But 
you  already  had  a  big  family  to  support  and  now  this 
one !  How  many  have  you  now  with  this  new  one  ? ' 
'Eight,  V/atrous,eight— -I  ju^  had  to  have  an  octave.' " 
There  is  another  story  which  Mr.  \Vatrous  tells, 
and  this  is  indicative,  also,  of  the  whimsical,  i^range 
painter.  Watrous  had  been  annoyed  all  day  by  a 
queer,  tinkling,  weird  sort  of  music,  the  sound  of  which 
came  jerkily,  but  incessantly,  firom  Blakelock's^udio. 
Unable  to  endure  it  longer,  he  went  into  the  ^udio 
and  found  Blakelock  alternately  rushing  firom  his  easel 
to  the  piano,  playing  a  few  notes  of  this  fanta^ic  air, 
and  back  again  to  the  easel,  painting  a  few  ha^y 
touches.  The  pidture  was  an  "Indian  Dance" — "I 
can't  make  these  Indians  dance,  W^atrous;  all  day  I've 
been  trying  andthey  won't  dance ! "  Andoff  he  would 
go  to  the  piano  and  bang  out  the  notes  which  haunted 
him  firom  some  incident  in  Indian  life .  Which  shows 
that  he  was  an  impressioni^  of  the  better  sort,  wish^ 
ing  more  the  idea  of  motion,  than  drawing  or  color  or 
other  que^ions  of  craft.  These  probably  didnot  bother 
him;  and  while  these  painter4ike  qualities  may  not 

32 


The  brook  by  moonlight 

COLLECTION  OF  CATHOLINA  LAMBERT 
Canvas.    Signed  at  the  left,    80  inches  high,  54  inches  wide. 


have  troubled  Kim,  because  he  could  compel  his  ma? 
terial  to  respond  to  his  will,  there  is  always  that  in  his 
work  which  impels  criticism. 

Ease  of  execution  is  not  present,  nor  is  it  necessary 
that  it  should  be,  but  the  difficulty,  the  labor,  muift 
never  be  seen.  We  have  no  business  to  affiront  the 
ta^e  of  the  observer  by  the  evidence  of  either  lAruggle 
or  incompetence,  and  for  those  men  who  obscure  the 
beauty  of  their  theme  by  the  flaunt  of  illy  placed 
paint,  we  have  no  patience.  To  them  the  observer 
might  say,  quite  ju^ly,  learn  your  business  before  you 
ask  my  attention. 

I  do  not  think  Blakelock  ever  afficonts  us  by  the  ob? 
viousness  of  his  druggie.  I  would  not  say  of  him  that 
he  was  a  great  colori^,  or  that  he  knew  the  sonorous 
splendor  which  great  colorii^s  reveal,  or  the  glory  of 
rich  contra^,  the  color  marshalled  ho^  upon  ho^ 
until  perfedl  tone  is  reached.  Inness  could  do  this, — 
Titian,  of  course.  Wyant  never  tried  such  a  thing. 
Monticelli,  yes,  but  always  at  the  expense  of  form. 
We  have  grown  into  the  habit  of  calling  certain 
painters  colori^s,who  paint,  and  can  only  paint  with? 
in  the  limited  scale  of  dull  gray  or  brown,  who  with 
delicate  tints  produce  a  harmony.  I  doubt  the  justice 
of  such  title.  Inness  has  left  us  a  splendid  phrase, — 
''The  fullness  of  tone  can  only  be  had  in  the  fullness 
of  color.''  If  this  dictum  be  true,  very  many  high 
reputations  fall.  Whi^ler  melts  before  its  blast,  and 
Blakelock  will  not  hold  the  title  of  coloriiA. 

Final  appreciation  of  Whi^ler  will  consider  him 


33 


chiefly  as  an  exquisite  styli^,  a  man  of  consummate 
ta^e,  and  having  a  sensitiveness  to  tonal  gradation 
little  short  of  the  marvelous,  but  he  was  never  inters 
e^ed  in  the  intensities  of  color.  So,  also,  Blakelock 
never  reached  the  color  heights,  but  was  masterful  in 
tone  of  a  luminous,  tragic  sort.  At  nightfall  he  sat 
upon  a  height,  and  played  upon  the  deeper  organ 
pipes,  and  his  music  is  low  and  very  sweet. 

It  has  been  said  of  the  Barbizon  men, — '  'They  secure 
their  color  at  the  expense  of  truth,  and  envelop  their 
foreground  in  a  dark  brown  shadow;  this  is  false  and 
impairs  the  beauty  of  their  work.''  Certainly,  if  this 
is  true  it  sugge^s  a  limitation.  Inness  has  been  called 
a  colori^,  and  we  find  him  using  every  inch  of  his  can^ 
vas  to  bring  together  into  harmonious  relation  wave 
upon  wave  of  pure  color.  Blakelock  erred  in  the 
Barbizon  manner  and  used  over^dark  masses  of  fore? 
ground  to  lend  color  and  light  to  other  portions  of  his 
pictures.  A  weakness,  perhaps,  but  with  excellent 
precedent  to  support  it.  When  we  look  upon  the 
exquisite  tracery  of  his  black  trees  again^  divine 
skies,  we  may  forgive  him  much,  and  love  intensely 
his  vision  of  the  nightfall  hour. 

PART  SEVEN 

A  MONG  his  great  moonlights  there  are  three 
^/3^  which,  I  think,  take  first  place.  Of  one  I  have 
already  spoken,  the  ''Moonlight"  from  the  Evans' 
coUedlion.  Another  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Frederic 
Fairchild  Sherman  has  the  fine^  qualities  of  Blake? 


34 


lock's  palette.  It  is  very  sumptuous,  though  reserved 
in  color.  The  composition  is  slight — we  have  said  that 
he  cared  little  for  linear  composition — a  dimly  dark 
Wretch  of  earth  serves  for  foreground,  a  tree  rises  on 
the  right,  and  there  is  a  hint  of  water  in  the  middle 
di^ance.  Over  this  rises  the  sky — one  of  those  lovely, 
broken,  flocculent  skies,  not  the  unpoetically  called 
mackerel  sky,  hut  cirrus,  close  woven  and  yet  open, 
with  depths  behind,  and  lit  by  a  greenish  moon; 
there  is  also  a  faintly  seen  halo  of  iridescent  tones. 
The  pidlure  has  nothing  to  do  with  fact.  It  is  a  dream 
of  the  night;  the  painter's  mood  is  melancholy,  his 
heart  is  heavy  and  he  looks  into  the  far  sky  spaces 
with  sadness.  Yet  the  pidture  is  not  wholly  sad— 
there  is  promise,  hope  even,  and  music.  No  moonlight 
sonata  could  more  perfedlly  convey  the  shadowed 
my^ery  of  the  night,  or  sugge^  the  witchery  of  fairy 
presence.  The  pidture,  then,  seems  peculiarly  to  be^ 
long  to  Blakelock's  mo^  intimate  expression,  to  be 
-  verily  part  of  himself,  and  being  so,  takes  a  high  place 
in  his  art. 

The  third  of  these  great  moonlight  pidlures  is  the 
noble  canvas  in  the  colledtion  of  Mr.  Catholina  Lam? 
bert  of  Pater  son.  New  Jersey.  The  pidture  is  painted 
on  an  upright  canvas.  The  composition  would  give 
joy  to  a  Japanese.  It  is  definitely  a  design, — a  thing 
rare  in  our  art, — and  depending  for  its  balance  upon 
the  flat  silhouette  of  a  tree  which  fills  the  upper  half 
of  the  canvas.  Smaller  darks  reach  from  the  ground 
at  the  lower  left,  dim  trees  and  a  moonlit  waterfall  are 


35 


placed  in  the  center.  This  waterfall  gives  the  title  to 
the  pidture,  ''Brook  by  Moonlight."  The  wonder  of 
the  work,  from  a  craftsman's  point  of  view,  is  the 
placing  of  the  moon  which  is  diredlly  behind,  and  seen 
through  the  great  tree, — doubtless  an  oak.  This  tree 
is  pure  lace  work,  full  of  drawing,  lovely,  charadters 
ful  drawing,  and  by  what  mystery  of  color  he  has  in? 
duced  the  white  moon  to  retreat  into  space,  amid  all 
the  black  lace,  one  may  not  divine.  It  does  it,  how^ 
ever,  and  proceeds  to  fill  the  Uttle  valley  and  its  broken 
^ream  with  a  moonlight  as  soft,  as  elusive  as  music. 
Had  the  pidlure  been  called,  ''The  Music  of  Moon? 
light,''  the  title  would  have  been  ju^ified. 

How  simple  are  the  means,  how  few  the  colors, 
and  yet  the  whole  is  pervaded  with  an  iridescence  like 
unto  but  one  thing,— moonUght  itself! 

A  variant  of  the  Lambert  pidture  was  in  the  collect 
tion  of  the  late  Mr.  V/m.  M.  LafFan.  The  composition 
was  quite  the  same,  but  in  this  canvas  the  labor  is  felt 
if  not  seen;  it  lacks  the  suave  certainty  of  the  other, 
and  again^  it  the  charge  of  blackness  might  well  be 
brought.  I  do  not  think  the  pidture  is '  'growing  black"; 
it  probably  was  so,  and  Mr .  Blakelock  essayed  another 
canvas  for  that  very  reason,  and  certainly  in  the  la^ 
— the  Lambert  pidture — reached  a  height  only  fore? 
shadowed  in  that  of  the  Laffan  colledtion. 

In  describing  these  three  pictures  one  does  not  wish 
to  ignore  the  many  smaller  canvases  which  are  scat? 
tered  through  the  collections  of  the  land,  many  of 
them  quite  as  exquisite  as  these,  but  lacking  the  im? 

3^ 


MOONLIGHT 

COLLECTION  OF  FREDERIC  FAIRCHILD  SHERMAN 
Canvas.    Signed  at  the  right.    22  inches  high,  27  inches  wide. 


portance.  Yet  I  would  not  seem  to  say  that  size  has 
anything  to  do  with  the  importance  of  a  work  of  art. 

A  small  moonlight  in  the  colledlion  of  Dr.  Alex:= 
ander  C.  Humphreys  has  great  charm.  The  pidture 
is  called,  ''Early  Evening'' and  shows  Blakelock  once 
again  wre^ling  with  the  same  theme  which  inter? 
e^ed  him  at  all  times,  and  which  he  never  seemed  to 
express  to  his  final  satisfaction.  He  uses  the  same 
compositional  means, — dark  earth  near  by, — a  pool  of 
water,  the  trees  small  and  scattered,  and  the  moon 
seen  at  the  full,  hung  low  in  the  sky,  quite  at  the  cen? 
ter  of  the  canvas;  but  in  this  pidlure  he  seems  to  search 
for  that  high  note  which  delicate,  pale^green  tones 
give,  and  these  feel  their  way  through  fields  of  silver, 
glinting,  trembling  and  altogether  beautiful.  One  ah 
mo^  feels  that  it  is  an  axiom  that  Blakelock  is  at  his 
fine^  in  silver,  greens  and  pale  blues.  With  them  he 
plays  up  and  down  the  scale,  and  sounds  all  the  mys? 
tic  wells  of  light. 

When  we  look  upon  such  a  sky,  and  feel  the  per? 
fedlion  of  its  atmosphere  and  light,  we  wonder  why 
it  was  necessary  for  so  called  Impressionism  to  be 
born,  when  light,  if  secured  at  all,  is  secured  at  the 
co^  of  loveliness  in  other  ways. 

In  all  of  Mr.  Blakelock's  pictures,  we  may  read 
that  strain  which  continued  to  the  end  of  his  working 
days — the  strain  of melancholy.  It  is  felt  in  the  heav? 
iness  of much  ofhis  composition,  the  depth  and  somber 
quality  of  his  shadows,  and  the  silence  of  his  line. 
The  sun  seldom  bursts  upon  the  earth  in  a  golden 


37 


smile,  there  is  never  the  flicker  and  sparkle  of  light 
upon  young  growths,  the  very  streams  flow  slowly 
and  sadly  down  to  the  sea,  and  the  moonlight,  if  it 
falls  upon  a  fairyland,  like  Keats's,  it  is  a  ''fairyland 
forlorn/'  These  very  quahties  reveal  the  intense  love 
of  the  man  for  his  art. 

V/ithin  his  soul  is  a  joy  so  intense,  there  is  no  room 
for  jest  or  laughter,  nor  need  for  either.  His  is  a 
shadowed  figure  in  the  world  of  our  art. 


PART  EIGHT 

IONG  ago  I  saw  him  pass  through  the  National 
-^Academy  during  an  Annual  Exhibition.  He  was 
at  that  time  slight  of  figure,  a  little  stooped,  thin  and 
very  sad  of  face,  the  gloom  of  melancholy  already 
upon  it,  the  hair  brushed  back  from  a  high,  white  fore? 
head  was  long  and  curly  at  the  ends,  falling  quite  to 
the  shoulders.  What  he  bore  in  his  mind,  what  he 
thought  of  the  pictures  shown  there,  we  may  not 
know.    He  was  in,  not  of  the  life  or  the  art. 

Within  the  present  year,  the  National  Academy  of 
Design  has  reminded  herself  of  his  merit  and  eledted 
him  an  Associate  member  of  that  body.  That  he 
will  attain  to  full  membership  is  undoubted,  for  there 
will  be  many  to  meet,  eagerly,  the  requirements  of 
the  Academy's  rule  concerning  such  elections.  He 
will  not  know  of  this  tribute  by  the  artists,  the  veil 
which  has  fallen  over  his  mind  can  not  be  pierced,  but 
the  Academy  in  honoring  him,  honors  herself  and  pre? 

38 


serves  in  Ker  great  roll  of  Americans  a  very  shining 
name.  Mr.  Arthur  Hoeber  has  told  in  the  ''Literary 
Miscellany,"  the  story  of  the  final  blow  which  stilled 
his  brush  and  silenced  forever  the  flow  of  beauty  firom 
him  to  us: — 

''In  need  for  the  necessities  of  life,  he  went  to  a 
man  to  whom  he  had  sold  pidtures  before— always 
at  an  absurdly  low  price.  To  him  he  offered  one  of 
his  ma^erpieces,  and  for  it  this  person  offered  a  sum 
so  low  as  to  dagger  even  Blakelock  who  was  not 
unaccustomed  to  starvation  figures,  and  he  recoiled 
from  the  offer,  returning  home  to  find  in  the  end  he 
must  take  it.  So  back  he  went,  but  the  man,  discov^ 
ering  his  pressing  needs,  now  offered  even  a  lower 
figure,  and  again  Blakelock  left.  A  third  visit  result^ 
ed  in  a  further  reduction,  but  the  dazed  arti^  was 
obliged  to  accept.  A  short  while  afterwards  he  was 
found  outside  the  office  tearing  up  the  paper  money, 
quite  out  of  his  mind,  one  of  the  mo^  pathetic  figures 
in  the  annals  of  art.'' 

Sad  enough  it  is,  full  of  tragedy,  and  with  a  pierce 
ing  criticism  of  the  public  in  its  attitude  toward  art. 
That  Mr.  Blakelock  had  endured  all  the  ^rain  possi^ 
ble  and  merely  broke  down  at  this  point  is  all  we  need 
to  know.  On  September  12,  1899,  it  became  neces^ 
sary  to  remove  him  from  his  home  to  that  haven 
where  he  still  lives,  shattered  in  mind  and  blind  to 
those  impulses  which  swayed  his  life.  On  that  very 
day  his  youngest  child  was  born! 

The  cycle  of  strain  is  over,  the  golden  brush  is 


39 


dull,— in  tke  tKought{ul  places  of  men's  hearts  he  has 
high  and  di^ingmshed  consideration,  but  to  the  outer, 
larger,  more  casual  world  he  is  not  yet  known.  From 
dim,  forgotten  places,  in  the  future  years,  other  gens 
erations  will  find  and  bring  to  hght  his  quiet,  glows 
ing  jewels  of  color  and  tone,  precious  as  jewels  mu^ 
ever  be,  whether  they  be  from  the  mines  of  the  Lord, 
or  from  the  deep  places  of  the  human  heart. 


40 


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